


In which Hermione is the last to know that she wants to bang Tom Riddle

by Meowmers



Series: Head Boy/Head Girl Tomione [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Head Boy Tom Riddle, Head Girl Hermione Granger, Hermione's thirst outweighs her rational thought, Tom is sort of evil but maybe not as evil as he usually is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24473833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowmers/pseuds/Meowmers
Summary: Hermione knew it would be him. He was top of their class (a title she had been battling against him for since their first year) beloved by their professors and classmates, he was a natural-born leader, handsome, likable - it would have been outrageous for head boy to be anyone other than him.Didn’t mean she had to like it.(the side-baby to the smut-fest fic that I tried to write only smut for but kept writing more plot because i got too excited oops)
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Series: Head Boy/Head Girl Tomione [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767727
Comments: 33
Kudos: 316





	In which Hermione is the last to know that she wants to bang Tom Riddle

Hermione knew it would be him. He was top of their class (a title she had been battling against him for since their first year) beloved by their professors and classmates, he was a natural-born leader, handsome, likable - it would have been outrageous for head boy to be anyone other than him.

Didn’t mean she had to like it.

Hermione always found something suspicious about Tom Riddle. She was certain she was the only one who thought so, save for maybe Harry, but then Harry was easily won over when people were kind to him. And Tom Riddle certainly went out of his way to be kind.

But he was mysterious. No one really knew where he was from - everyone knew he was an orphan, but no one knew how, or where he lived now. Everyone just thought he was a poor tortured soul and that those things should never be mentioned.

He had a close circle of friends who followed his every command and cowered in the face of his glare. She had seen Malfoy once laughing and subsequently cowering from nothing but a look from Tom Riddle, nothing more than a glance, and suddenly Malfoy was swallowing his laughter and averting his eyes to the ground. Malfoy didn’t do that for anybody.

How could someone so allegedly kind strike that kind of fear into someone’s heart with nothing more than a glance?

He was fake, she had decided. He was nothing more than secrets upon secrets shrouded beneath a pretty face, a friendly smile, an intelligent mind. But there was something there, beneath the surface. Something secret, something dark.

And Hermione never liked liars.

“Would you just admit you want to ride his dick til you pass out so we can move on?” Lavender drawled from her bed in the Gryffindor seventh year room.

Hermione sputtered for a solid thirty seconds while Padma and Parvati absolutely killed themselves laughing. Ginny, who was lounging on Padma’s bed while the twins lay together on Parvati’s, stared at Hermione awaiting her reaction with unrelenting glee.

“Lavender!” Hermione finally managed to choke out, bringing on another round of obnoxious laughter from the girls.

“Oh come on, Hermione,” Lavender said, “You have wanted to hop on that since first year!”

“I have absolutely no idea what you are–”

“Oh, look at him Hermione!” Ginny said, “That boy is sex on legs,”

“Whether or not he is sex on legs is not the point!” Hermione snapped, “Have you been listening to anything I’m saying? I have to share a living quarters with a boy who–”

“So you admit he’s sex on legs then?” Lavender interrupted.

“Ugh!” Hermione pushed herself to her feet, “I am finished with this conversation. I’m leaving.”

“Make sure you get back before curfew starts,” Padma said, and Parvati added, “Or Riddle will need to punish you!”

“Fuck all of you!” Hermione swore, and the uncharacteristically foul language sent the girls into another round of laughter.

–

She tried to speak to Harry and Ron.

Ron said, “Ah, this is about how badly you want to snog Riddle then, is it?”

Harry laughed, and Hermione picked up the bottle of firewhiskey they had snuck in and poured it out the window as revenge.

–

She put off returning to the common room as long as she could. Guiding the first years around had been alright, mostly because they split up those responsibilities and didn’t take them together, but they would be doing rounds tonight, together, just the two of them, then returning to the Head’s common together.

It all felt very strange.

Tom was stood outside the portrait to their common room when she arrived. “You’re nearly late.” He said.

“Nearly,” Hermione agreed, “But not quite.”

“Meeting up with your friends?” He asked as they started down the hall. He always did this, attempted friendly conversation, as if they were familiar enough to do so. She nodded curtly. “Did you meet up with any of them over the summer?”

“No,” She answered. She didn’t elaborate.

“Ah,” He replied, seemingly nonplussed, “It must be nice to catch up, then.”

When would this torture end?

“Yes, it is.” Hermione agreed.

“And did you have a nice summer?” He asked.

She glanced toward him, but looked away before she caught his eye. He was peering around the corridor, keeping an eye out for any students out after curfew or first years who had gotten lost. She wondered what he was playing at, why he was trying to make friendly conversation. What did he have to gain, here? What did he want?

“Miss Granger?” He pressed.

“Hm?”

“I asked if you had a nice summer.” She looked toward him again, and this time his eyes were fixed on her.

“Did you?” She asked, just to see the twitch in his brow in response. He did that sometimes, little ticks to show that his endless patience wasn’t really so endless. She loved to see it, see those glances into whoever he was behind his mask of perfection.

“Yes.” It was the shortest response he’d given her that night.

“Oh,” She said, and offered him a strained smile, “Yes, I did.”

He didn’t speak to her for the remainder of the evening, except for a polite ‘have a good night’ when they returned to the common room.

It felt like a win

–

They split up rounds, after that. They worked on a one night on, one night off schedule, trading off. It wasn’t typical for head boy and girl to do this, but Hermione had suggested it, and Tom hadn’t argued.

He never did, she found out. He had debated her countless times in class, but they had never had a personal conversation before this year, and it seemed no matter what she said, what she suggested, he tended to agree.

She didn’t understand what he was up to.

Her friends wouldn’t stop relentlessly teasing her, and wouldn’t listen to a single one of her suspicions. And why would they? She didn’t have anything to go on, just this feeling in her gut.

Maybe it was just an issue of attraction.

He was handsome, certainly, and extremely intelligent. He impressed her, and it had been a while since she had met someone who genuinely impressed her. He had a way with people that she always lacked, everyone liked him, maybe it was jealousy. Or maybe it was the way she had so often caught herself thinking about him over the year, wondering what it would be like to know him, for him to know her.

Was this feeling nothing but her own convoluted emotions making her over paranoid?

Living in close quarters to Tom was easy. He kept to himself, didn’t invite anyone over, she would only see him if he was reading in front of the fireplace in their shared common area. She never saw him up to no good, never heard strange noises or saw strange things. He was perfectly normal, perfectly good, perfectly perfect.

She was beginning to doubt herself.

“You know,” Harry told her once, “I thought I hated Draco for ages until I realized I just like blokes.”

“But you also hated Draco,” She reminded him.

“True,” He agreed, and shrugged, as if that didn’t really matter.

–

It was her turn for rounds, and she was dutifully making her way through her assigned route. It was a quiet night, she hadn’t run into any first-years sneaking around the castle, or third-years finding their way to the kitchens, or sixth-years hooking up in abandoned classrooms. She was grateful especially for the last one, she hated stumbling upon that.

She was about ready to finish, head back up to her room and go to bed, when she saw the slightest glow under a classroom door.

It only lasted for a moment before it was gone, like a candle being burnt out, or a spell being cast. She crept toward the door, it was probably a couple of naked teenagers again, trying to get their rocks off in the potions classroom. She pressed her ear against the door to see if she needed to knock or if she could barge in.

She could hear nothing.

She moved away, furrowed her brow. There was definitely someone in there, but they put up a silencing charm. Definitely a couple. She went to open the door, it was locked. So she cast an Alohomora, and to her surprise, nothing happened.

Something icy settled in her stomach. She could only think of one person that she could imagine casting such advanced locking charms. But it wasn’t his night for patrols, and she thought he was in his room.

She was being paranoid. She knew she should knock and demand whoever is in there comes out immediately, deduct house points for being out late and finish her rounds. She shouldn’t be overdramatic about this, lest she look like a fool.

She blew up the lock and removed the silencing charm.

She heard a boy yelp as she pushed the door open. There was a bit of smoke from the exploded lock that had to clear before she could see what was going on inside the room.

Malfoy stood inside, his eyes wide and wet, and Tom stood opposite, looking like he was trying very hard not to look angry.

“What is going on in here?”

“Miss Granger,” Tom said calmly, “Was blowing the lock truly necessary?”

“Was locking and silencing the room truly necessary?” She replied, but she was quickly distracted by Malfoy. He looked terrified, he was blinking rapidly, his eyes wet, and he was shaking like a leaf. She glanced between the two of them, Malfoy looking traumatized, and Tom looking the picture of poise, his eyes locked on her.

She wondered what could have been happening before she opened that door.

“Are you alright?” She asked Malfoy quietly.

“Draco sometimes has nightmares,” Tom answered, “It’s not something he is particularly open about. I was trying to give him a space to calm down with a bit of privacy.”

Hermione watched Tom for a long moment, examined the friendly tilt of his lips into an almost-smile, the gentle tone of his voice. He was for all intents and purposes, a dedicated friend.

Hermione wasn’t buying it. “I asked Malfoy.” She said.

Something changed in Tom’s expression then, something she hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t just the twitch of his eyebrow or a slight, barely present frown. His whole face went startlingly blank, and his eyes became sharp. She had never seen his eyes like that, focused and intense.

She looked back to Malfoy, who stared back and forth between them with wide eyes. “Malfoy.” She repeated.

He looked at Tom first, who met his gaze. Malfoy then looked back to her, and finally spoke, “Yes,” He said, and the breathiness of his voice made Hermione wonder what had been happening before she interrupted. Did people really sound like this just from crying from a nightmare? “I get night-terrors. Tom was simply calming me down.”

Hermione didn’t like the way Tom turned back to her with a smile. “If you don’t mind, Ms. Granger,” He said, “I’ll take care of Malfoy.”

Malfoy had not stopped shaking.

“I can take him back to his common room,” Hermione said, “It isn’t your night for rounds, Mr. Riddle.”

“I would rather Tom takes me back to the common room.” Malfoy interjected.

There was nothing more Hermione could do then, except look sadly at the state Malfoy was in and ask, “Are you sure, Draco?”

She used his first name on purpose. Malfoy blinked at her, and Tom turned his head slowly to look at her as she said it. She didn’t look at Riddle, kept her eyes on Malfoy and waited for his response.

He nodded, so there was nothing else she could do.

“Fine,” She nodded, and didn’t look at Riddle when she added, “Take him straight back to his common room, it’s after curfew and I don’t want to have to deduct house points.”

“Of course, Hermione,” Tom said.

It was the first time he ever used her first name.

–

Hermione didn’t see Tom that night, and she left her room early that morning.

She didn’t see him until breakfast.

“I need to tell you something,” She said to Harry and Ron, “Something I saw last night.”

“What is it?” Ron said through a mouth full of food.

She looked around the Great Hall. Tom Riddle hadn’t made his appearance yet, but Malfoy was at the Slytherin table. He looked normal, his typical haughty self, it was as if last night had never happened. But Hermione couldn’t chake the memory of his expression, frightened and shaking like a leaf.

“I was doing my rounds,” She said, looking back to Ron and Harry who were listening closely, “And I walked in on Riddle and Malfoy.”

“Doing what?” Harry asked.

“I’m not sure,” Hermione said, “They were in the potions classroom and had a silencing charm and complicated locking charm on the door.”

“Doing _what_ , though?” Ron pressed.

“I don’t know!” Hermione protested, “I can’t imagine what they could have been doing, but–”

“Were they fucking?” Ron asked outright.

Hermione sputtered for a moment, “No!” She said, “Well, I–I don’t think so. No. Malfoy looked terrified.” She thought of the two of them, standing there, Riddle’s calm stance, Malfoy’s wide, wet eyes. “No, definitely not. I blew the lock and walked in unannounced and they weren’t even touching, no clothes askew.”

“Wait,” Harry interjected, “You blew the lock?”

“Yes.” Hermione confirmed.

“Bloody hell,” Ron said, “Why’d you do that?”

“I couldn’t unlock it.” Hermione shrugged, not understanding the fuss. “That’s not the point.”

“So what did they say?” Harry asked.

“They said something about Malfoy having nightmares,” Hermione sighed, “That he needed to calm down, and Tom was helping him.”

Ron shrugged, “Sounds believable to me.”

“Does it?” Hermione asked, astounded, “Does it actually?”

“Yeah, why not?” Ron asked, and commenced shoveling food into his face again, “They’re friends, aren’t they?”

“Riddle doesn’t have friends,” Hermione protested, “Have you ever heard him call anyone by their first name? Have you ever seen him spending time with someone outside what is absolutely necessary?” She didn’t miss Ron rolling his eyes, but she ignored it, “Something was going on, I’m sure of it. I’m just not sure what.”

“What does Malfoy have nightmares about?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know, Harry!” Hermione replied, exasperated, “That’s not the point.”

“The point is,” Ron said through another mouthful, “Hermione is pissed her boyfriend was canoodling with another guy.”

“Ronald.” Hermione said sternly.

“Hermione.”

That wasn’t Ron. That wasn’t Harry. Hermione looked up to see Tom Riddle stood behind her two best friends, a small, friendly smile on his face. Ron’s eyes practically bulged out of his skull when he turned to see who was behind him, and he turned back to Hermione to raise his eyebrows and she knew what he was trying to say to her without words, ‘he calls you Hermione, huh?’

“Riddle.” She greeted, pointedly avoiding his first name.

“I was hoping I could speak to you.” Tom said.

“No.” Hermione replied, secretly delighted by the slight falter in his smile, “I’m in the middle of a conversation.”

“We just finished, actually!” Harry chirped, smiling at Tom and then turning back to Hermione, “Go ahead, ‘Mione. It’s fine.”

She wanted to kill Harry.

“Fine.” She said, and stood slowly, “We can talk.”

“Excellent.” Tom said.

They were on opposite sides of the long table, and the distance from where she was sat to the main door of the great hall felt like a funeral procession. She glanced toward him, over the heads of the students at the Gryffindor table. He looked straight ahead, his hands clasped behind his back, his head held high. He had excellent posture and a perfect mask. It felt dreamlike, walking alongside him with only a table full of oblivious students between them.

Once outside the Great Hall, Tom walked beside Hermione until they reached a relatively quiet corridor. It was lined with windows that overlooked the courtyard. Sunlight streamed in, and they stopped in the light of one of the windows, but Tom stood just outside of the sunlight.

She waited for him to speak.

“You blew the lock off the door.” Was the first thing he said. She didn’t understand why everyone was so hung up on that.

“Yes.” She confirmed, “You cast very complicated locking spells.”

He smiled tightly, “We wanted privacy.”

“What for?” She asked.

He paused, examined her for a quiet moment. Hermione wasn’t sure what he hoped to find, but he stared into her eyes for what felt like a very, very long time before speaking again, “Forgive me to saying so, Hermione,” He used her name again. She didn’t know why he did that. “But you seem suspicious of me.”

“Is there something I should be suspicious of?” She asked.

“I certainly don’t think so,” He laughed, “I told you the truth last night, I’m sorry if it appeared suspicious.”

“Why was he so afraid of you?” She tipped her chin up, tried to search his eyes for some kind of answer like he seemed to try to do with her.

He laughed, “Hermione,” He said her name again, she felt something uncomfortable coil in her gut, “He was not afraid of me. I don’t believe anyone has any reason to be afraid of me.”

She didn’t believe him. That was the strangest thing about all of this - despite his nice smile and his kind words, she couldn’t find it within herself to believe him no matter how she tried. But it would do no good to say so, so she looked away and said, “Of course. Forgive me, I’m a bit on edge.”

“Are you alright, Hermione?” He asked, “Is there anything I can do?”

You can stop lying to my fucking face, she thought. But she just smiled tightly and shook her head.

He reached out, gently laid his hands on her arm, and it took everything in herself not to flinch. “Let me know if you need anything.” He said kindly, “Perhaps we can start doing rounds together?”

She didn’t like the idea of spending any more time around him than absolutely necessary. But then she didn’t like the idea of him galavanting around Hogwarts at night, either. At least this way she could keep an eye on him.

“Alright,” She agreed, “Let’s do that.”

He smiled, and let his hand linger just a moment too long on her arm.

–

Hermione cornered Malfoy in the library.

“Draco,” She greeted, sitting down across from him where he was reading. He looked up, and promptly blanched.

“What the fuck do you want, Granger?” He snapped.

“Just checking in.” She said, “How are you feeling?”

He stared at her for a very long time, a sneer steadily spreading across his face. “Fine.” He spat.

“No more nightmares?” She pressed.

There was a split second, barely there at all, where his brows started to press together, and he looked confused. It was gone in a flash, and he averted his eyes and followed along, but it was all Hermione needed to know she was right. “Yeah, nightmares…” He agreed, “I’m fine, Riddle helped.”

She leaned closer, folding her arms on the table in front of her. “But it wasn’t really a nightmare, was it?”

Malfoy grit his teeth. “What are you on about?”

“It wasn’t a nightmare,” Hermione repeated, “It was something else, right?” Malfoy was glaring fiercely at her now, “What happened to you in there? Why were you so scared?”

“Granger,” He started, and it sounded like a warning. Hermione ignored it.

“What did he do to you?” She pressed, “Malfoy, if you tell me, I can help you.”

Abruptly, Malfoy slammed his hands on the table and stood. He leaned toward her, and in a quiet tone, he furiously spoke, “I have never once asked for help from a mudblood,” Hermione sat back, the word sinking deep into her chest. She blinked once and willed herself not to show how it bothered her, “And I won’t start now.”

She stood and slammed her hand down on his book, let her magic seep out through her fingertips to set it on fire.

She left him there, frantically stamping out the flames, and felt foolish for caring. 

–

She was studying in the heads common room. She didn’t usually do that, opting to study in her room instead, but she wanted a change in scenery, so she sat on the floor of the common room by the fire, taking in its warmth and focusing on her coursebook.

She didn’t expect Tom to sit in the chair across from her by the fire.

She glanced up, and saw he was staring at her intently. He hadn’t greeted her yet, just stared. It was evening time, and the room was dark except for the fire. She watched the glow play along his features, and felt something strange in her belly.

“Hello, Riddle.” She greeted first, because he wasn’t saying anything yet.

“Hermione.” He greeted, and smiled a small, private smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” She answered, “Why?”

“I heard about your conversation with Malfoy.” He explained, and she felt herself go cold despite the warmth of the fire.

She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure what she was meant to say.

He pursed his lips for a moment, then moved from the chair to sit on the ground across from her. “Hermione,” He said quietly, “I heard about what he called you.”

She suddenly felt very confused. She thought he would ask why she was still asking about him, still acting like he was suspicious. She couldn’t fathom why he, a Slytherin who had absolutely used that word before, would be concerned because someone called her a mudblood.

It wasn’t precisely that it didn’t bother her. It did. Every time someone called her by that name it made her feel angry, upset, ashamed, all at the same time. But she was used to it, to some extent.

“He’s called me that before,” She finally answered, “I know you’ve used that word before.”

“Not against you.” He argued.

A strange argument, because it hardly mattered who he used it against.

“Regardless,” She continued, “You’re hardly in a position to comfort me if someone calls me a horrible name.” His brow twitched, “Besides, it isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last. I’m fine.”

“I’ve spoken to him,” Tom said, “He won’t call you that again.”

She felt well and truly lost. She couldn’t hide the confusion on her face even if she tried.

“Shouldn’t you be more concerned with other parts of our conversation?” She asked.

It was a foolish thing to ask him, but she couldn’t help herself.

He laughed, glanced away for a moment to look into the fire. Hermione found herself unwillingly fixating on the glow of his cheeks, the slope of his nose, the way the firelight danced in his dark eyes and made them glow red.

“Do you know what I think, Hermione?” He asked, still looking into the fire. She didn’t answer, and after a moment he looked back at her, and there was something in his gaze that made her stomach twist. “I think there are better things we could be doing than fighting each other.”

Hermione suddenly found herself rather short of breath. There was no mistaking what he was implying, his tone of voice and the weight of his eyes made it very clear. Though for all of the female attention Tom Riddle received, she had never heard of him being so forward. Quite the opposite - she had often heard girls bemoaning the fact that Tom was so standoffish, refused to make a move or pursue anyone, was nothing but a perfect gentleman at all times.

He was trying to distract her, she thought. It was the only explanation. He was trying to take her mind off of things that he didn’t want her to be thinking of.

She wondered…

She set her book aside, leaned toward him slowly. There was no sound except for the crackling of the fire. She watched his eyes as she leaned toward him, closer and closer until there were only a few inches between them. He watched her, sat as still as a statue. She paused, left a breath of space between them and watched his expression, but he showed no emotion.

Quietly, she spoke, and as she did, his eyes fell to her lips, “I would love to know what it is you think we should be doing, Tom Riddle.”

His eyes met hers again, impossibly dark. She didn’t notice he lifted his hand until she felt his fingers drag gently up her arm. He didn’t move closer, he left that decision entirely up to her. Clever, she thought. To let her believe she is entirely in control, to ease any thoughts of suspicions that he should be hiding something by distracting her but making it feel like it is her decision.

Briefly, she did consider the possibility of going through with it. It would grant easy access to his bedroom, and she could surely find all sorts of things in there to clear some of his mystery. But there was no guarantee she would have a moment in there without his watchful eye, and she felt a bit uncomfortable at the thought of sleeping with someone to get what she wanted.

She wasn’t like him.

She could feel the heat of him, as strong as the fire, blazing against her chest. She was struck by the uncomfortable thought that some part of her, buried beneath the suspicion and frustration and anger, would like to kiss him. It made her angry, the way some parts of him seemed to call to her, it made her deeply uncomfortable that the thought of being with him made her stomach twist with anticipation.

It especially infuriated her that all of this was only a show. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that someone like Tom Riddle - intelligent, poised, enigmatic, Slytherin - would never look at her that way. He must think her a fool to fall for something as simple as this, to trip over herself because he gives her an iota of attention.

Hermione tilted her head. He still hadn’t moved. She found it fascinating, the way he held himself so still, allowing her to make all the moves. Somehow she doubted someone like him, someone capable of instilling os much fear in his friends, would be so submissive in matters like this.

“How stupid do you think I am?” She asked, breaking the silence with nothing more than a whisper. He blinked, a slight pinch to the centre of his brow. “What kind of simpering fool do you take me for?”

His hand dropped. “Hermione,” He started, but she caught his hand by the wrist and he fell silent once more.

“Perhaps next time,” Hermione spat, “We can come from a place of mutual respect, rather than pretending I am like every other person you have ever seduced, intimidated, or threatened into doing what you want.” His face was carefully blank, but he didn’t interrupt, he didn’t move, didn’t even pull his hand away. “You can start by telling me what was happening with Malfoy the other night, and then perhaps I can withstand your present long enough to have a conversation.”

He didn’t say anything, so Hermione turned to pick up her book and began to stand. Tom Riddle caught her by her wrist before she could get far, so quick and so sudden that he startled her. She dropped her book as he pulled her back down, and in a tone sounding very unlike him he spoke.

“How about we start with you telling me something,” He said, and she noted his voice was higher when he was angry, sharper, more cutting. It wasn’t a nice sound, not like the way his voice usually sounded. “Why do you care so much about what happens to Malfoy?”

“So you admit it?” She pressed, “Something happened to Malfoy?”

“Don’t you know that he hates you?” He spat, and this version of him was so different than any version of him she had seen before. She took in every inch of him, the downward curl of his sneer, the slight wrinkle of his nose, the cutting gaze, the slope of his brow. There was even a slight flush to his cheeks, a sign of life that she hadn’t even noticed wasn’t there before. “More than he hates Potter, more than he hates anyone, he hates you. He find you repulsive, dirty—“

“I have never cared what Malfoy thinks of me and I won’t start now.” She interrupted.

“Then why do you give a shit about what happens to him behind closed doors?” His grip on her wrist was bruising, but she wouldn’t flinch. This was the most brutal, honest display he had ever shared with her, and she wouldn’t miss a moment, wouldn’t shy away, not now when she was getting exactly what she asked for.

“Because it doesn’t matter how much of a bigoted arsehole someone is,” Hermione spoke through gritted teeth, “Doesn’t mean they deserve to be tortured.”

It surprised even her when she said it. She wasn’t sure what precisely it was she suspected when she found Malfoy shaking and terrified in that room with Riddle, hadn’t thought on the details too much. But it made sense to her somehow that someone so perfect and so poised, so falsely kind, could only be capable of horrible, unspeakable things.

Tom’s face closed off immediately, and any and all emotions she had been rewarded with was suddenly gone. His eyes went blank, cold, and a dead smile stretched across his lips. “Oh Hermione,” He murmured, “What a dark imagination you have.”

She snatched her wrist out of his grip, and realized a moment after he did that her hands were shaking. His eyes followed the movement of her hands as she picked up her book and pressed it against her chest.

“I’m not so easily fooled, Riddle,” She said as she stood, “You can deny it all you want, but we both know I’m right.”

“You always are, aren’t you?” He asked, his tone mocking, looking up at her from his place on the ground.

Such a strange and unusual stalemate, she thought, standing her him while he stared up at her with cold, emotionless eyes. She was too quick to call him out, it was too sudden, and because of that they were back to square one. He hadn’t admitted it, but he hadn’t denied it, and he hadn’t lashed out at her either. She might’ve expected more anger in light of her accusations, but he just sat there, the picture of ease, staring up at her as if he had nothing to worry about.

She didn’t say anything in return, instead she stormed to her room, shut the door, and cast three separate locking charms.

She didn’t sleep well that night.

—

Hermione wasn’t sure what she expected the following morning, but seeing Tom Riddle waiting for her on the couch in the common room stopped her in her tracks.

“Hermione,” He greeted.

“Riddle,” She replied, pointedly refusing to use his first name. “What do you want?”

“I’d like to walk you to the Great Hall.” He answered, standing smoothly. She narrowed her eyes.

“Why?” She asked.

“Because I’d like to show you something.” He answered vaguely.

She didn’t like this, it gave her an uncomfortable feeling, but she wasn’t sure what else she could do. If she resorted to violence, its more than likely people would side with Riddle. Running away would do no good, as they went to school together, shared multiple classes, and slept in rooms next to each other. Not to mention, the idea of running away felt cowardly as well as foolish.

She sighed through her nose and nodded, approaching him with measured steps. He held his arm out to her with a smile as if to guide her, and she ignored it.

They walked in silence. He didn’t try to speak to her and she had no interest in speaking to him. She paid close attention to the corridors, trying to see if any of his friends were lurking about, ready to jump her. She kept a hand on her wand at all times, ready for anything, but nothing happened.

When they neared the Great Hall, she saw a head of white blonde hair lurking outside the entrance. She glanced at Tom momentarily, then looked ahead, tightening her grip on her wand.

Malfoy straightened as they approached, and Hermione readied herself for…for what, she wasn’t sure. It seemed foolish to start something right outside the great hall, and Malfoy didn’t have his wand in hand. His eyes were trained on the floor as they neared him, and he didn’t look up.

“Malfoy.” Tom greeted.

“Riddle,” Malfoy returned, and then more quietly, “Granger.”

Hermione had no idea what was happening, even less so when Malfoy squared his shoulders and spoke.

“Granger,” He repeated, louder this time, somehow managing to sound haughty and arrogant even while his eyes were trained on her shoes, “I apologize for my behavior yesterday. It was inappropriate and uncalled for.”

Hermione was at a loss of what to say. At her extended silence, Malfoy glanced up at her, and then toward Tom. His eyes quickly fell to the ground again, and to Hermione’s utter shock, he lowered his head in what was almost a bow.

She had seen purebloods do this often, mostly to their elders, bow their heads in respect. They rarely did it to anyone on their level, classmates or colleagues, and certainly never did it to muggleborns. “Please, forgive me.” Malfoy said.

Hermione turned her head slowly to look at Tom, who was watching Malfoy with a blank expression, but something dance in his eyes, something almost gleeful.

She turned her head back to see Malfoy, head still bowed. “I forgive you.” She said quietly, and watched the way his shoulders sag, like he was expecting differently.

He straightened, tipped his chin up and nodded before heading into the Great Hall. Hermione watched the empty space where he had just stood.

Tom started to move, but Hermione caught his arm before he could enter the Great Hall. “What in Merlin’s name was that?” She hissed.

“A gift,” He said, and stepped close to her, so close that she had to lift her chin, tip her head back to meet his eyes. “Did you like it?”

“What are you doing?” She asked quietly, and he smiled.

“You don’t like it then?” He surmised, looking like he was enjoying this far too much.

“What did you do to him to make him do that?” She snapped, keeping her voice low.

He dipped his head just a bit, and whispered, “Nothing more than he deserved,” Then he straightened up again, and continued, “Don’t you like him better this way?”

“What are you doing?” She repeated, quickly losing her temper.

Tom Riddle smiled, an unusual thing, because it wasn’t just a quirk of his lips. It was a fully-fledged smile, one that showed his teeth, dimpled his cheek. Hermione felt that smile deep in her belly, twisting and tugging, shortening her breath. “It’s time for breakfast.” Is all he said.

“I’m not eating with you.” She said, furious at how breathy her voice sounded.

“I would be surprised if you did.” He answered.

He took her gently by the arm, and it was only then she realized she had never let go of his arm. She let go as if burned, but didn’t shy away from the gentle fingers on her arm. He guided her toward the entrance to the great hall, and waited until they had entered, until they had caught the gaze of the students nearest to the entrance, before he dropped his hand and nodded his farewell, heading toward the Slytherin table.

Hermione ignored the twisting in her belly, the heat where this hand had touched her arm, and wondered what it meant that when she turned her head to peer over the heads of all the students as she walked toward her table, Tom Riddle’s eyes were still fixed on her.

—

“So, Hermione,” Lavender started as if she was going to say something of value, but when Hermione raised her eyes from her schoolwork, Lavender said nothing at all. Instead she waggled her eyebrows suggestively, and Hermione knew immediately what she was implying.

“Stop it.” Hermione snapped.

Thankfully, she stopped the hideous eyebrow-waggling, but she did not drop the subject. “I’m just saying, you and Tom have been spending a lot of time together, and you haven’t even—“

“Lavender, I swear to Merlin—“

“Haven’t even said anything about it!” Lavender bulldozed over Hermione’s interjection, and Ginny, who was painting her nails bright shades of Red and Gold for the upcoming Quidditch match, nodded solemnly along. “I mean come on, You can’t leave us hanging like this.”

“I’m not leaving you hanging.” Hermione said firmly, putting on what Ron often referred to as her Mum-voice, “There is nothing to hang on, because nothing is happening, Lavender.”

“Yes, Lavender,” Ginny interjected, arranging her face into a scowl and mimicking Hermione’s tone of voice, “Tom only sometimes sticks his hand up my skirt in Potions class—“

Hermione sputtered furiously, and Ron—who was nearby playing a game of chess with Harry—groaned.

“Riddle has never, not once, stuck his hand up my skirt anywhere, let alone in the middle of class!” Hermione protested, turning a furious glare on Lavender, “Stop making things up!”

“I saw it!” Lavender insisted.

“Can you lot talk about something other than Tom Bloody Riddle for once?” Ron griped.

“Tom and Hermione are dating?” Harry asked, clueless as ever, as Ginny roared laughing.

“Aw, shit,” Ginny said after she calmed down, staring balefully at her nails, “I fucked it up.”

“Give me,” Lavender said, sliding off the couch to sit by Ginny and grabbing her hand and the bottles of nail polish.

“I am not, nor will I ever be, dating Tom Riddle!” Hermione protested, feeling very much like a broken record at this point.

“Then why was his hand up your skirt?” Lavender asked.

“It was never up my skirt!” Hermione exclaimed.

“I know what I saw!” Lavender snapped.

“Aw, shit—“ Ginny said, pulling her hand away and holding up her index finger to show Lavender had accidentally swiped the red all the way down to her second knuckle, “Lavender what the hell?”

“Sorry,” Lavender shrugged, unbothered in the face of Ginny’s ire, and she added, “Just got so hot and bothered thinking of—“

Hermione knew what she was going to say, and had heard enough, so with a groan, she rose to her feet, packed up her parchment, and stomped out of the Gryffindor common room.

“So,” Harry spoke up as she was on her way out, “Are they dating or not?”

—

Tom Riddle had never, not once, stuck his hand up Hermione Granger’s skirt.

He did often have his hand on her arm when they walked together, as they sometimes did when he descended upon her like a vulture and she could think of no rational reason to tell him to fuck off. He did, at times, let his hand very briefly settle against the small of her back if he was saying goodbye, or saying hello, or brushing by her in the corridor. And perhaps, once, when he was sitting by her in potions class—as he had taken to sitting by her in every class they shared together, which was most of them—he may have very briefly, and very innocently, laid his hand on the bare skin of her thigh where her skirt had ridden up, just to get her attention as he pointed toward an ingredient on the far side of their table that he wanted her to pass to him. And maybe, maybe she had flinched a bit violently, and hurriedly fixed her skirt as she stood, and maybe she moved so quickly that he didn’t have time to retract his hand before she was already standing, stepping away from him, and maybe his fingers trailed down her thigh very, very slightly as he pulled his hand away, and maybe Hermione noticed the look of unrelenting glee on Lavender’s face as she gaped from across the room.

But he had not put his hand up her skirt. Lavender had a disgustingly over-reactive imagination. And Hermione certainly did not at any point think he was trying to put his hand up her skirt, absolutely not, that is not at all what went through her head when she first felt his fingers brush her inner thigh.

It wasn’t even her thigh really. Barely. It was closer to her knee, really, and she didn’t think of it often. She didn’t.

She thought, more often, of Malfoy. He had returned to his usual self, he muttered under his breath when she answered questions in class, called her a know-it-all, cornered her, Harry, and Ron in the corridor with his cronies when he was in the mood to start a fight. But he hadn’t called her a mudblood in the weeks following the incident, not once.

And she still couldn’t figure out why.

She knew how, that was easy to figure out. Obviously Tom Riddle had either threatened or tortured him into refusing to use that work against her, but she still wasn’t sure why. Similarly, she wasn’t sure why Tom Riddle insisted on being around her as often as possible.

He sat by her in class, sought her out in the library, he made conversation during rounds which they completed together every night. She entertained his peculiar behavior, but she didn’t try to piss him off anymore, not with the memory of Malfoy standing in front of the Great Hall, head bowed, contrite, directly following her disagreement with Tom the night before.

She just wanted to figure him out. Sometimes he would say something benign, something ordinary, something she had heard a thousand times before, like “you are an extraordinarily bright witch, Hermione,” and she would find herself so desperate to know what he meant by it, because it wasn’t like him to mean exactly what he said. She wanted to crack open his skull and peer into his mind, dig deep into is psyche and unearth all his little secrets, find out why he was the way he was, find out what he was doing, find out what he wanted.

She heard a knock on her door, and she looked up from her book. She felt her heart race for no logical reason, except for the fact that he had never once knocked on her door before.

“Yes?” She called, and glanced at the clock. It was too early for rounds. He didn’t answer, clearly preferring for her to open the door instead of speaking through it. She frowned, but stood and opened the door nonetheless.

“Hello, Hermione,” He smiled.

“It’s a bit early for rounds.” Hermione pointed out.

“Yes, I’m aware.” He said, still smiling, but it felt a bit more mocking now, “I was hoping you might join me for tea before our rounds today.”

A bit strange, but the request was not entirely out of nowhere. She had gotten used to his attempts to be in her company at all hours. Still, he had never actually invited her to do anything, had only ever sidled up to her in open spaces whenever the opportunity presented itself. “Is everything alright?” She asked.

“Of course,” He said, and gave her an innocent sort of expression, one that suggested he had no idea why she was asking that, “Just in want of your company.”

There was a small, double-sided smile on his face. Hermione wish it didn’t make her heart race.

“Fine,” She agreed, knowing she should say no, but unable to recall the reasons she should say no for.

They sat on the two armchairs by the fire, and for some reason Tom knew exactly how she took her tea (strong, milk, no sugar) and Hermione was mildly interested to see he took his tea black, no sugar. For reasons she refused to think about, she filed that little tidbit of information away, in case she needed it later.

“Has Slughorn invited you to his upcoming party?” He asked her.

“Obviously,” Hermione said, taking a sip of the tea he had prepared for her. Perfectly made, just like everything else he did.

“Perhaps you would like to go together?” He asked her.

It wasn’t surprising, or at all strange, for him to ask her. She knew he would. But she is still struck by the strangeness of the situation, of their situation, and so she hesitated. She wasn’t used to being on Tom’s radar. She had been battling against him for the place at the top of their year ever since she started at Hogwarts, but he had never really given her more than a glance outside of classes. She had expected that to change, at least a little bit, once they were forced together as head boy and head girl, but this was…

She knew it stemmed from their argument, from the first (and only) night she had seen him truly open, honest, and angry, but she couldn’t understand how point a lead to point b.

He could be covering his tracks, she thought suddenly. He could be luring her into a false sense of security, presenting himself to her and everyone around them as nothing more than a besotted classmate, so that when she one day meets her untimely demise, he is the farthest thing from a suspect.

A foolish plan, though, really, because she wasn’t a simpering idiot who would drop all her suspicions just because of…

But she hadn’t mentioned her suspicions on a long time, she realized. She held on to them, clutched them close to her chest, ready to brandish them the moment she finally could and say ‘look, look at him now, see him for what he truly is!’ But she hadn’t voiced her concerns to any of her friends for weeks, nearly a month now. If she were to die tonight, for example, it would seem to her friends that she had dropped her suspicions long ago. And Tom wasn’t foolish enough to leave any evidence if he decided to off her.

It struck her suddenly, that she hadn’t watched him while he was pouring her tea.

She glanced down at her cup, already a quarter empty, and then back at him. He quirked a brow, and it was then she realized she had never answered his question.

She cleared her throat, her heart suddenly racing in her chest, “Slughorn actually suggested that to me.” She said.

“He suggested it to me as well.” Tom said, smiling kindly, and Hermione looked at her cup of tea again.

She felt hot, but that could be because of the fire, or because of her fear, or because of the way Tom Riddle tilted his head and observed her under dark lashes. She willed herself to calm down, paid close attention to any symptoms of poison, but felt none.

Don’t be ridiculous, she suddenly chastised herself. The stupidest thing he could do would be poison her in their shared common room.

“Is that why you’re asking?” She asked, slightly breathless in her panic. She hadn’t quite calmed her heart down yet, and couldn’t distract herself from searching for symptoms of poisoning in her body.

“No,” He said, sounding genuinely surprised by her question, “I ask because I would like for us to go together.”

Hermione tapped her finger against the rim of her mug, “Well,” She started, and readied herself to lie through her teeth, “I’m afraid I already asked Ron if he would go with me.”

Tom got a very particular look on his face then, as he often did when she did something to go against what he wanted. He went very still, and his face went very blank, his eyes dropped to watch her finger tap against her mug over and over and over, and she watched his jaw twitch.

“Ronald Weasley.” He said darkly, and suddenly Hermione wondered if it was a mistake to say that. She thought of Draco Malfoy, shaking in an abandoned classroom, terrified out of his mind, and started turning over things to say to fix the dark look in Tom Riddle’s eyes as he said her friend’s name.

“I don’t appreciate Slughorn trying to set up his students as if it is any of his business,” She said, watching his expression closely, “And I had a feeling you might ask me.” Tom finally looked up, met her eyes again, a curious gleam in his eye. “I’m sure it isn’t a mystery to you as to why I might not want to accompany you anywhere.”

His jaw twitched. It might’ve been the wrong thing to say. “I had thought we might be passed this.” He said, “After all the time we have spent together.”

Hermione still didn’t take another sip of her tea, even though she had gone this long without any reaction, and she was passed the panic that said that Tom Riddle might be poisoning her, but she kept it in her hands regardless. “What is the point of this, Riddle?”

“The point of this was to ask you to Slughorn’s party,” Tom insisted, “Only for me to discover that you have, for some incomprehensible reason, decided to go with Ronald Weasley.”

“Ron is my friend.” Hermione said firmly. “Why are you so angry, Riddle?”

Tom blinked, then he turned and set his mug of tea on the table to the side. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and watched her very closely, “I’m not angry, Hermione.” He said calmly.

She was forgetting herself again. She tried to remember Malfoy, trembling, afraid, she tried to think of Ron, and the situation she was putting him in, but Tom Riddle was so confusing, and she couldn’t figure out just what the hell he was after, and it infuriated her. She put her tea on the table as well, and mimicked his posture. “Well, I am.” She said.

Tom tilted his head, just a little, like he often did when something fascinated him. After a moment of observing her, he said, “You have such a Gryffindor approach to things, Hermione. I do find it refreshing.”

He certainly had a way of knowing exactly what to say to piss her off. “Why are you following me everywhere?” She demanded, “Why are you always asking me questions? Why are you asking me to accompany you to party?”

“I seek you out because I enjoy your company.” He answered quickly, and though his response seemed candid it still felt like a farce, “I ask you questions because I find you fascinating. I am asking you to accompany me to Slughorn’s party for the same reasons.”

“I don’t trust anything that you say.” Hermione snapped, and Tom Riddle smiled wide. She hated when he smiled like that, it showed off his straight, white teeth and dimpled his cheek. She felt that smile deep in her gut.

“That’s why I like you.” He said.

Hermione grit her teeth, “You know what?” She said, “You can do rounds by yourself tonight. I suddenly feel exhausted.”

She stood without another word, stomped off to her room and shut the door. Tom didn’t stop her.

—

She did go to bed early, but her sleep was far from restful, and when she woke, it was due to images of Ron shaking with wide-eyes, terrified, writhing under Tom Riddle’s wand. She snapped up in bed, chest heaving as if she had just been drowning, gulping in lungfuls of air and clutching her wand tight in her fist.

She had to check on Ron.

She crept out of her room without even checking the time, but given the dark common room, it must be late, definitely late enough for Tom to have finished his rounds and returned to turn off the lights. Enough time for him to torture Ron into submission.

She hurried through the corridors, peering around corners like a paranoid idiot, until she made her way to the Gryffindor common room. She ascended the stairs to the boys dorm as quietly as she could, found the 7th year dorm room, and crept inside.

It was dark, and all the boys were asleep. Most had pulled their curtains shut, save for a few, but she had to peek through every curtain until she found Ron’s bed.

He was fast asleep, peaceful, and as far as she could tell, unharmed. She realized then that her hands were shaking, and she didn’t know what to do next.

So she crawled into his bed, sat at his feet, her wand held tight in her hand.

She couldn’t even use the excuse that she was overreacting, not exactly. She knew that Riddle was capable of causing great harm to people, Malfoy was a perfect example, and for all of her accusations, Tom had never once denied it. So he might want to harm Ron, he might do anything if he felt it would get what he wanted.

It would help if she could figure out what he was trying to do. If he was trying to earn her trust, to erase her suspicions, then harming Ron would make no sense. But if he was trying to control her, to manipulate and silence her, then of course he would hurt her friends.

He wouldn’t do it in the Gryffindor common room, this she knew. It didn’t make her feel better, and it didn’t convince her to leave.

Unfortunately, Ron chose that moment to wake up. It happened slowly, and Hermione still wasn’t quick enough to leave or hide. His eyes fluttered and he shifted in his sleep. His ankle kicked her side, and in his half-asleep state, he felt her out with his foot for a moment as if trying to figure out what was on his bed. She didn’t move, and didn’t say anything, just sat there and watched him wake up, knowing he was going to think she was crazy.

Blearily, once he realized he could not figure what was on his bed just by foot-sight, he opened his eyes and looked at her.

He flailed, his arms getting caught up in his duvet, and he screamed.

“Shh!” Hermione snapped, holding her hands out as if to forcibly make him remain still, but she didn’t actually touch him, “Shush, its just me!” She kept her voice low, as quiet as she could, and Ron stared at her as he cowered against his headboard, his face twisted into confusion and incredulity.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He hissed.

She realized she had no rational answer. “I….well—“

“Why are you sitting on my bed in the dark watching me sleep?” Ron squeaked.

“I was not watching you sleep.” Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Oh right okay—what were you doing then?” Ron hadn’t calmed down, and didn’t seem like he would calm down any time soon, “Plotting my death?”

“No!” Hermione objected.

“Then what the bloody hell are you doing?” He asked hysterically.

Hermione hesitated, “I…uh…” Then she sighed irritably through her nose, “I know you won’t believe me, but Riddle—“

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ron interrupted, “You gave me a fucking heart attack in the middle of the night to tell me about Tom Bloody Riddle?”

“Ronald, listen—“

“You’re bloody mental!”

The curtain was thrown open, “Hey, what’s going on—“

Ron screamed again, and Harry jolted, staring between Ron and Hermione with confused eyes, his glasses askew.

“Weasley, will you shut the fuck up?” A voice snapped in the dark, Hermione was pretty sure that was Seamus.

Harry crawled in and pulled the curtain shut, and Hermione cast a quick Muffliato. “What’s going on in here?” Harry asked, still glancing between them as he straightened his glasses.

“Hermione has lost her fucking mind!” Ron threw his hands up.

“I have not!” Hermione snapped.

“Yeah, uh,” Harry tucked his legs up, wrapped his arms around his knees, “What are you doing here, Mione?”

Hermione considered lying, but she remembered the fear she felt drinking that cup of tea, the fear that she might die without her friends knowing her suspicions, so she was honest. “I just thought…Riddle freaked me out, I thought—“

“Bloody fucking hell,” Ron muttered.

“—I thought maybe he would do something to you, Ron.” She finished.

“We’re still on that?” Harry asked, sounding more confused than exasperated as opposed to Ron’s huff.

“Yes,” Hermione said firmly, “Yes, we are.”

“And this couldn’t wait until the morning?” Ron griped, “You know, after sleep?”

“Why would Tom want to do something to Ron?” Harry asked.

“Because I told him that Ron and I are going to Slughorn’s party.”

“You what?” Ron whined.

“We’re going.” Hermione said firmly, and give Ron his due, he didn’t argue on that point, just turned his eyes to the ceiling and silently resigned himself to his fate.

“Why would you tell him that?” Harry asked, looking increasingly confused.

“Because Riddle asked me, and I needed a reason to say no.” Hermione explained.

Harry, somehow, looked even more confused. “Ok, wait, so…you and Tom aren’t dating?”

“No, I am not dating Tom Sodding Riddle!” Hermione exclaimed.

“She’s lost it,” Ron whispered to Harry, clearly aware that Hermione could hear every word he was saying, “She’s lost her damn mind.”

“Fuck you, Ron.” Hermione snapped.

“Well,” Harry said brightly, “Since we’re all up, how about a trip to the kitchens?”

Hermione scowled.

“What do you say, Head Girl?” Ron asked, “Gonna deduct house points?”

“Let’s just go to the kitchens.” Hermione sighed.

They didn’t really understand, when she tried to explain it. And every time she said that she couldn’t understand what Tom was after, they exchanged this look like they thought she was being dense, and then refused to explain to her what they were thinking.

—

It wasn’t precisely that Tom and Hermione didn’t speak in the time between their conversation and Slughorn’s party, but they certainly didn’t talk any more than absolutely necessary. Tom didn’t spend quite as much time with her, but that was mostly due to the fact she spends nearly every waking moment with Ron, much to Ron’s annoyance.

“Mione,” Ron said once, standing in front of her from her seat on the grass nearby where Quidditch practice was taking place. She looked up from her book. “Wouldn’t you rather read that in the library?”

“Wouldn’t you rather mind your business?” She asked brightly.

He huffed, and leaned forward to speak quietly, “Hermione, I know you’re going through like a mental breakdown right now—“

“Ronald—“ Hermione started warningly.

“—But you’re really screwing with my game, you know?”

“Your quidditch game?” Hermione asked, confused.

“My lady game!” Ron exclaimed, then hurriedly quieted himself, “No girls will talk to me because they all think you’re into me now.”

Hermione shrugged. “I don’t see why that would deter anyone who really wanted to be with you, Ron.”

“It does when they’re all afraid of you.” He insisted.

“No one is afraid of me, Ron.” Hermione said, turning back to her book. Ron just huffed again and dropped the subject, returning to his game.

Tom and Hermione still did rounds together, but their conversations were all surface level. They talked about classes, they talked about books. They never mentioned Slughorn’s party, not once.

He also had ceased the unnecessary touching, although he continued to sit beside her in classes.

Hermione thought perhaps it was a change in tactic, and continued to follow Ron around no matter how many times he called her a paranoid guard dog.

—

Slughorn’s parties were always a bit stiff, and a bit awkward. Hermione had been invited to them every time they occurred since her third year, and there were never more than about 15 people, guests included, so it was near impossible to avoid anyone if they were there. She kept this in mind while standing by Ron at the side of the room, her eyes constantly searching for Riddle, who had yet to make his appearance.

“Would you stop fidgeting?” Hermione said quietly to Ron as he rolled his shoulders and shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“I hate these stupid things.” Ron grumbled.

“Stop being such a baby,” Hermione said, turning to face him and eyeing the sad state of his dress robes. She sighed through her nose and moved to stand in front of him, tugging his robes into place so that he looked like less of a mess.

“Stop mothering me,” Ron said, pushing her hands away.

“I am not mothering you,” Hermione argued, “I don’t mother.”

She straightened his collar.

“Stop doing that!” Ron said, slapping her hand away. She punched him in the arm as revenge and he winced and stopped battling her as she straightened up his robes.

“What is this?” She asked, fingering a stain on his collar.

“I had a snack before I came.” Ron shrugged.

“You’re disgusting.” Hermione said, pulling her wand to clean that spot on his collar, “I can’t believe you are willing to be seen like this.”

“At least my hair doesn’t look like—“ Hermione glared up at him and Ron snapped his mouth shut with a clack, before opening it again to say, “—like a uh—beautiful fluffy cloud.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“You can stop fussing now—“ Ron said, reaching up to bat her hands away again, and this time she caught his wrist.

“I’m not fussing,” She said firmly, and glanced briefly around the room, “I’m—“

She saw Tom Riddle in the far corner of the room, by the refreshments, and who should be on his arm but Pansy fucking Parkinson.

“Ow, Hermione, stop—“ Hermione jerked her attention back to Ron and realized she was digging her nails into his wrist. She hurriedly let go, and Ron rubbed at his now sore wrist, “No need to injure me just because your boyfriend—“

“Not my boyfriend.” She muttered under her breath.

“—found himself a new girl.”

She glanced back over to Pansy and Tom. Tom patted Pansy’s hand on his arm as she laughed at something that probably wasn’t funny, she had never heard Tom say anything funny in her entire life.

“Being a bit obvious, Mione.” Ron chided her.

“Obvious?” Hermione said, turning back to Ron, “Obvious how?”

Ron fixed her with a knowing look.

“Stop looking at me like that.” Hermione said.

Ron kept looking at her in exactly the same way, even waggled his eyebrows a bit as if he thought that might drive the point home.

“You look like an idiot.” She told him.

When everyone sat around the table, it was about as awkward as it usually was, with the added bonus of Parkinson glaring at Hermione every time she spoke. Tom Riddle watched her as well, but Hermione had never been able to pick apart this particular gaze so she didn’t trouble herself with trying now. Ron kept fidgeting in his chair, to the point where Hermione had to reach over and pinch his knee to remind him to sit still, and he made a very rude face every time Slughorn tried to speak to him, as if he would rather be beaten by the Whomping Willow than have to speak to anyone present.

Hermione was a bit distracted, to be honest. Every time Pansy laid a hand on Tom’s arm, or leaned over to whisper in his ear, she felt her fists curling.

Pansy and Hermione had never really got along, much in the same way her and Draco never got along. Pansy was Slytherin, pureblood, privileged, and a bitch. Ron used to joke that if Pansy wasn’t such a racist piece of shit, he thought her grade of bitchiness would go well with Hermione’s, and Hermione had responded to that with a smack on the head.

That was the only reason it grated on her so much to see her here. It had nothing to do with the fact she came with Tom Riddle.

“How long do these things usually last?” Ron asked quietly at her side, and Hermione almost jumped. She had nearly forgotten he was there.

“No much longer,” Hermione said, turning to look at him, “You look like you’re enjoying the food at least.”

“The only bearable thing about this.” Ron confirmed, but Hermione was focused on the sauce at the corner of his mouth.

“Wait,” She said, and reached out to wipe her thumb across the sauce.

“Mione—“

“Shush, I’m just—“

He reached out and grabbed her face, squeezing her cheeks until she jerked away. “How’s it feel when someone randomly grabs your face, huh?”

“You had sauce on your mouth.” Hermione pointed out, “I was being helpful.”

“I already told you to stop mothering me—“

“I’m not mothering you, and it’s still there, let me—“

She picked up a napkin and dipped it into her water, reaching up to wipe his mouth as Ron made a very childish face. Hermione laughed, because he was being ridiculous. Sometimes she really felt like he hadn’t aged since he was twelve.

“There,” Hermione said, setting her napkin down. “Now stop pouting.”

“Not pouting,” Ron said, “Just didn’t want to come to this fucking thing in the first place.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, and made the mistake of looking across the table.

Tom Riddle was watching her, face blank, jaw clenched. She met his eyes on accident, and then found she couldn’t look away. She observed the tense line of his shoulders, the very slight downward turn of his lips, and she wondered what had caused his sudden change in mood. He had been perfect a moment ago, smiling and charming and at ease, and now he glowered at her in a way only he could, the type of glowering that wasn’t glowering at all unless you knew what you were looking for.

It made her heart race, it made warmth spread from her chest up to her cheeks.

She suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable, and desperately wanted to leave.

“Excuse me,” She said quietly to Ron as she stood, “I need the loo.”

Ron, already distracted by dessert, waved her goodbye without a word.

Hermione hurried out of the room and into the corridor, felt her anger and her unease buzzing beneath her skin. She just needed a moment outside of the room, away from Tom Riddle and his disconcerting gaze, away from Ron who kept looking at her like she was over-reacting, like there was something she didn’t understand, away from Pansy Parkinson who drifted between glaring and staring smugly over at her from across the table, probably with her hand on Tom’s knee.

It was her stupid crush, her ridiculous little fixation, rearing it ugly head again, and she knew it. It was her least favorite part of herself, her obsession with Tom Riddle that never seemed to die no matter how many reasons he gave her to hate him. She wasn’t an idiot, she knew what it felt like to fancy someone, she just didn’t understand why her heart was so steadfastly focused on a man who, as far as she was convinced, tortured his fellow students in empty classrooms at any given opportunity.

She took a deep breath, let it out through her nose, slowly. She tried to calm down.

She felt a hand on her arm and somehow knew who it was before she even turned around.

She jerked away, turning to face Tom Riddle head-on, and for a single moment, neither of them said a thing.

“Pansy Parkinson.” Hermione commented, unsure why that was the only thing she could think to say, “Interesting choice.”

“She wasn’t my first choice,” Tom pointed out, “But you knew that.”

Hermione grit her teeth.

“You and Weasley are quite close.” Tom said, his tone was light, but his gaze was not.

“He’s my friend.” Hermione spat, “I trust you are unfamiliar with the experience.”

Tom quirked an eyebrow, “You’ve certainly been spending a lot of time with your _friend_.”

“It’s none of your business who I spend my time with.” Hermione snapped.

“Try as I might,” Tom said cuttingly, his voice so sharp she nearly flinched at the sound. She hadn’t heard him speak like this in a while, “I cannot seem to shake your suspicions, Hermione, I wonder why that is?”

“Because you are a _liar_.” Hermione said.

His jaw twitched, and he took a step closer, but they were already close enough, so that single stride brought him far, far closer than she felt comfortable allowing him. But she didn’t move away, and she didn’t push him back. “A liar?” He echoed, and he spoke so quietly, but she could hear him so clearly in the silent corridor. She was aware, suddenly, just how alone the two of them were, and that familiar feeling of panic began to well up in her throat.

“Did you think I would just forget?” Hermione asked, and willed her voice not to shake, “Did you really think that I would forget about Malfoy just because you follow me around, and compliment me, and flirt with me, like suddenly it doesn’t matter anymore?”

Tom’s brow twitched, and while he hadn’t quite reacted in the same way he had that night, all wild-eyed with a twisted sneer, she could still tell he was angry. “Malfoy again.” He said, in that same dark tone that he had said ‘Ronald Weasley’ the other night. She gritted her teeth, watched as Tom took a single step away from her lifted his hands in a sort of helpless gesture, and said simply, “I fixed him.”

Hermione stared, and stared, and stared for a moment more. She didn’t understand why every time they spoke, she always came away more confused. But before she had the chance to ask what he meant, Tom was already continuing.

“My methods are unimportant,” His brow quirked upwards, but not in a sarcastic way or a combative way, his expression was a beseeching one, like he wanted her to understand, “He upset you, so I fixed him.”

Hermione felt her heart lurch, and then race, “The first time,” She said, “The first time I found you—“

“Was nothing.” Tom finished for her, and then a bit more severely he said, “I may be a liar, Hermione, but I have not lied to you in a long time. Ask me.” Hermione watched him warily, and he said again, “Ask me.”

“What do you _want_ from me?” She asked, and it wasn’t really what she meant to ask. She had a hundred questions, she wanted to know exactly what he did to Malfoy, she wanted to know how many people he had hurt, she wanted to know who else he was planning on hurting and intimidating, but Merlin, the way he looked at her made her desperate to know what he was thinking, what he was hoping for.

He smiled then, just a little, like he was pleased with the question she chose but also maybe a bit in awe of her. It was the wrong thing to ask, she knew it. It was a selfish and foolish thing to ask him. But it drove him closer, he closed the distance between them, watching her closely all the while, until he stood just in front of her, with only their breath between them.

His fingers found her wrist, barely touching, just hovering featherlight over the skin. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.” He chided gently.

She might’ve had a come-back or a follow-up question, but the feeling of his fingers on her arm was distracting in a humiliating way. She felt something curl in her belly, and heat seemed to expand from her stomach clear into her fingers and toes in an instance, sudden and violent and overwhelming. It wasn’t fair that she felt like that form nothing more than the barely-there brush of his fingers against her wrist, just like she felt it when his hand found her arm, or her back, or her thigh.

“Why did you follow me?” She asked him, because she needed to know, because she still didn’t understand what he wanted from her, what his plan was, and even knowing he would just lie to her face she hoped she could read between the lines, finally get a small look at what goes on in his labyrinth of a mind.

“Because if I had to watch your friend,” He spat out that word as if it was a curse, “Shove more food in his gaping maw knowing that he has somehow managed to commandeer all of your attention, then you really would have something to guard him from.”

“And what would you rather I pay attention to?” She asked, and Tom’s fingers circled to the underside of her wrist, drawing down until they met her palm, holding her hand so gently she almost wondered if she was imagining his hold. His thumb brushed across the top of her hand.

She didn’t realize it, but she had been staring squarely at his mouth as he spoke, and had been for a while. When she noticed, she raised her eyes to meet his again, but he was staring at her lips as well.

She should stop this. She should snatch her hand away, she thought, but as she had that thought his fingers glided further down, until he had threaded his fingers between hers and pressed his palm against hers. She should push him away she thought, but he was already stepping closer, his free hand raised to curl his fingers under her chin, to tip her head back. She should tell him to get away from her, she should tell him to get out of her face, to never touch her again.

But his lips already met hers.

It was so soft, so gentle, so light, and still, she felt it like a slap. She felt so hot, and all her blood seemed to rush to her legs as if ready to run, it made her lightheaded, it made her unable to think clearly, so she let him kiss her, relished in the softness of his lips against hers. It felt new, it felt innocent, and his thumb dragged up the length of her index finger as their hands remained interlocked, his other hand shifted to cup her jaw, his thumb sweeping across her cheek.

She jerked away, and she didn’t think it was fair that she could feel so breathless when he had barely touched her. She stared into his eyes, glancing wildly between them, desperately trying to regain control of her actions, but all she could feel was the tingle of her lips, his hands on her skin, and all she could think was how disconcerting it felt now, to know what it was like to be kissed by him and find her lips suddenly bereft.

His eyes were so dark, and she was sure they weren’t usually this dark, weren’t usually this black, but his pupils had swallowed up whatever color there usually was. She wished she could read him better, wished she could understand the flexing of his jaw, the pucker in his brow.

“What…” What are you playing at? She was going to say. What are you doing? What is the point of this? But she didn’t have the chance to ask, because he closed the distance between them again, but this time it wasn’t a feather-light caress, it wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t kind. His lips met hers and it was hard, it was sudden and startling and rough. She let out a sound, muffled against his lips, purely out of the surprise of the onslaught of sensations that it caused, her whole body tensed up as if preparing to take a hit. His hand slipped from hers so that he could slide it around her waist, his fingers digging into her back to pull her closer, his other hand threading into her hair. Her hands floated helplessly at her sides for a moment, she was too engrossed in the sparks that went straight to her core with every stroke of his lips against hers, and it wasn’t a constant decision to meet ever press of his lips with her own.

It wasn’t until his lips parted and she felt his tongue against hers that her hands finally sprung to life, she clutched at his arms, felt the tense and release of his biceps as he wrapped his arm fully around her waist, and she couldn’t understand how every stroke of his lips sent such a violent spark of heat straight to her core, she couldn’t remember where they were, or what they had been doing, or why it had taken so long to explore this feeling.

His hands were constantly moving, like he needed to touch every part of her. They went from her hair, to her throat, her shoulders and her sides and her back until they firmly grasped her waist and pressed her firmly against the wall of the corridor. Every stroke of his hands she could feel straight to the marrow, every sensation echoing in her core. His teeth caught her lower lip, scraped against the sensitive skin and then soothed it with his tongue, his fingers kept a bruising grip on her waist. It was nothing like the first kiss, gentle and soft and controlled, and she got the feeling he might feel just as out of control as she did, judging by the way his fingers dug warningly into her waist when she tried to arch her back.

It was too much. It was too much and she thought of Malfoy, and Ron, and all the other nameless unknown faces that saw the wrong side of this mysterious boy.

She pushed Tom away, and she was struck by the look in his eyes, a bit crazed, a bit wild. His brow was twisted in confusion, maybe a bit of anger, his lips were parted and swollen and wet and the only other time she had seen him with an expression so clear and unguarded was when he was angry. But this was different.

His hands were still on her, so she pushed him away again, further this time. She was well aware of how breathless she was, gasping for air like a fool, and suddenly his face was shuttered again, his brow uncreased, his mouth a straight, stern line.

“Hermione,” He started, and Merlin it sounded like a warning, like a threat, and she shoved him once more just to shut him up, just so she didn’t have to hear him speak so quiet and low and heated.

She tried to leave, and he reached for her, wrapped his fingers around her wrist, but she jerked away. She glared at him as viciously as she could manage, and then she turned and fled, fled like a coward because she couldn’t trust herself to say anything, knew she would sound like a breathless fool if she tried.

She didn’t even stop at Slughorn’s party to collect Ron. She fled all the way to the Gryffindor tower and didn’t look back.

—

“And then she fucking ditched me to go make out with Tom Riddle in the corridor—“

“Ronald!” Hermione snapped as Lavender started screeching with delight, “I did not—“

“Don’t lie,” Ron thrust a finger in her face that she immediately slapped away, “I saw him when he came back, I know what it looks like when someone gets back from a good snog.”

“Can’t hide it anymore!” Lavender said in a sing-song voice, kicking her feet excitedly on the sofa in the Gryffindor common room.

“It is just like Hermione to snag the hottest boy in school and then run away.” Parvati grumbled.

“Remember Viktor?” Padma said.

Parvati sighed wistfully, “Do I ever.”

“I didn’t run away—“ Hermione tried to argue.

“Can’t believe you chose to hide in Gryffindor tower instead of getting dicked down by Tom Riddle.” Padma said.

“Tom Riddle,” Parvati repeated, and shook her head as if she was disappointed.

“So,” Harry finally interjected from where he was sat beside Ron, staring between them all, “Tom and Hermione are definitely dating now, right?”

Ginny finally exploded into the laughter she had been holding in throughout the whole conversation.

—

Hermione was not ashamed to admit she was avoiding Tom Riddle after that night in the corridor outside Slughorn’s party. 

It wasn’t cowardice. She looked at the situation logically and came to the conclusion that her outlandish behavior came as a direct result of spending too much time around Tom Riddle. She wasn’t the type of girl to make out with a boy in a corridor who she had, quite recently, accused of torturing a fellow student. She was the type of girl to find proof to back up her claims and assess whether it needed to be brought to the proper authorities. That was the type of girl she was, not whoever she was in the corridor that night. Tom Riddle was to blame for that. 

So she avoided him. She made sure to arrive with someone to ever class and always sat by them, whether they were sat in the front of the class or not. She didn’t sit alone in the library, checking out the books instead and reading them in the Gryffindor common room. She didn’t walk alone in corridors and she had convinced Ron and Harry to let her stay in the Gryffindor boys dormitory whenever she wanted. 

She tried to stay in the girls room, but they kicked her out after the second night and told her toget laid. Harry and Ron were somewhat more accepting of her paranoia, most likely because they had both had their own irrational suspicions of Draco Malfoy and Viktor Krum respectively. Ron griped, as he always did, but didn’t turn her away on the nights where Hermione couldn’t sleep in her own room because she knew Tom Riddle was only down a short corridor. 

She had even, when they were forced to meet up for Rounds the night after the incident, suggested they return to doing a one-night-on, one-night-off schedule. Tom had clenched his jaw and fallen quiet for a moment, but he agreed. 

She knew this would mean Tom Riddle had more time to galavant around potentially torturing students, but if he was doing that, then it meant Hermione could catch him in the act.

Not that she was creeping through the halls on her own like an idiot trying to catch him. She wasn’t Harry.

She wanted to be smart about this, but it was so impossible to know where to start. Even just silently observing Tom at the Slytherin table, she could see everyone adored him as much as Slytherins could show it. Even Malfoy, who she knew for a fact was afraid of him, sat by him during meals and seemed to seek his approval with nearly everything he said. Pansy Parkinson—who had taken to glowering at Hermione whenever she saw her, even more than usual—sidled up to Tom at every opportunity, and beamed whenever he gave her the slightest bit of attention. That was a common theme, actually, students acting as if he had handed them the moon whenever he so much as smiled in their general direction. 

It wasn’t just Slytherins. Now that Hermione had successfully blocked Tom from sitting next to her in class, he had an array of students who swiped the seat next to him in class. Sometimes Slytherin, but often it was Ravenclaw, as Tom would always arrive early and on his own, similar to many of the Ravenclaw students. Terry Boot spoke at length with Tom about some essay that Slughorn had mentioned Tom had written, and Tom smiled that small plastic smile and replied too quietly for her to overhear, and they discussed it at length until class started.

Tom had a surprising amount of acquaintances outside of Slytherin. It wasn’t surprising, really, she knew everyone loved him, but she hadn’t realized how often he interacted with them. She had assumed that everyone’s obsession with him stemmed from distant admiration. If she was honest, Tom ventured outside his own house more than most Hufflepuffs, and accepted anyone’s approach with kindness and patience and genuine curiosity. 

It was no wonder her friends all thought she was crazy when she raised any suspicions, that slimy bastard. 

“So,” Ron said quietly beside her while she was busy glowering at Pansy’s hand on Tom’s shoulder before class started, “You think he’s gonna ask her to the Yule Ball?”

Hermione had practically dragged Ron with her to class early, and was already regretting it.

“I don’t know.” Hermione said curtly, “I don’t care.” Then, because his statement seemed a bit pointed, she turned to face him and asked, “Why would I care?”

“Didn’t say you would.” He grumbled, flipping through his textbook for no reason. Hermione would bet he had never read a single word in that textbook in his life. 

“Why would you care?” She asked, and leaned toward him when she saw his face go red.

“No reason,” He shrugged, looking literally anywhere but at Hermione. 

“Ronald,” Hermione said tersely, “Do you fancy Pansy Parkinson?”

“What?” Ron said, much too loudly, then he coughed, scratched at the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders, and much more quietly said, “No way, Mione, she’s—she’s a—well you know, she’s—“

“She’s…” Hermione prompted, raising a single eyebrow and then hurriedly lowering that eyebrow when she realized where she had picked up that quirk from. 

“She’s crazy.” Ron finally settled on. “She’s—she’s terrifying.”

“You told me you like terrifying women.” Hermione pointed out.

“She’s a bitch.” He said instead.

“You said I’m a bitch, too.” Hermione argued. 

“Well, I’m not asking you to the ball, am I?” Ron parried, and Hermione, despite the fact that if he asked her she would find it very strange and unusual, still felt offended that he pointed it out.

“Well good,” She snapped, “I would say no if you did.”

“Well, have fun going to the ball alone then!” Ron snapped. 

“You too,” She snapped back, “Because no way in hell is Parkinson going to say yes.”

“Well that’s just fine,” Ron said, making a conscious effort to keep his voice down, “Because I never said I was going to ask her.”

“Fine!” Hermione snapped, louder than intended.

“Okay!” Ron said, even louder. 

“What are you both arguing about now?” Parvati asked, sweeping by to sit in the desk in front of them, followed closely by Lavender.

“Nothing,” Hermione said, at the same time that Ron snapped, “None of your business.”

Without thinking, she chanced a glance to where Tom and Pansy were sitting, and saw that they both had turned their heads in her direction. Pansy was glowering at her, as she tended to do, but Tom was staring directly at Ron. 

She could see his jaw flexing from across the room, and heard Ron flipping idly through his textbook again. She could hear the way Tom had said Ron’s name, dark and low, echoing in her mind with every flip of the page. Hermione had noticed Tom watching her often, probably about as often as she watched him, but what bothered her far more was the way he would sometimes watch her friends, particularly Ron. She didn’t trust the look on his face, as benign as it might appear to anyone else. 

Reaching over blindly, she snapped Ron’s book closed, keeping her eye on Tom. His gaze shifted to her, and she met his gaze head on, silently daring him to glare at Ron again. 

McGonagall finally made her appearance to mark the beginning of class. Tom watched McGonagall walk by his desk, then with one more lingering glance in Hermione’s direction, turned to the front of the class. 

She told herself she had redirected his attention to her to get his dark gaze off of Ron. But some part of her knew that wasn’t the only reason. 

—

Hermione usually tried to warn Harry and Ron if she would be popping up to their room on a particular night. She could usually tell if she needed to spend time away from the Heads room by how many times she catches Tom Riddle staring at her. 

Today was one of those days. 

Ron replied to her perfunctory “I’m coming over tonight,” with the expected amount of ire, especially considering their argument in class.

Harry grinned and said, “Maybe you can help me with my charms homework, then!”

The only strange and unusual thing about that moment was, as she rolled her eyes and turned away to glance around the courtyard that they were sitting in, she saw Draco Malfoy not too far away, staring at the three of them with an expression of unrestrained disgust and confusion. 

When he saw that she noticed him, he turned and scurried away. 

She had no idea what that was about. 

—

Hermione was completing her rounds that night, with her books for the next day and her pajamas for the night in her bag so she could head straight to the Gryffindor tower after the rounds were done. She ignored the thought that played in her head that if she knew of anyone else sneaking to dorms that weren’t theirs multiple times a week she would absolutely lecture them for at least twenty minutes and take away house points, and instead focused on peering around the corridors to make sure no one was out of their common rooms. 

She found a couple Ravenclaws who claimed they fell asleep while studying in the courtyard, but their mussed hair told her otherwise. She also found a couple Hufflepuffs in the kitchens, but judging by the mascara running down one of the student’s cheeks, she figured it had been an emotional night, and sent them back to their dorm without taking any house points away. 

She always feels a bit on edge during rounds, and it was entirely because of Tom Riddle. Something about walking around by herself at night, knowing what happened the last time she was alone in a corridor and cornered by Tom Riddle, it made her paranoid.

She knew what he wanted now, or at least what he wanted her to believe he wanted. That much was made very clear. What she didn’t understand was why, and what lengths he would go to in order to get it. Similarly, she wasn’t sure what to make of the very small amounts of evidence she had against him, who he was, what he had done. 

It wasn’t precisely that she was considering…anything, really. More accurately, she wanted to know who she was dealing with before she considered anything at all. 

It was at that moment, caught up in her thoughts and wandering the dark corridors of Hogwarts alone, that two hands appeared to cover her mouth and wrap around her torso, pulling her into a silent and dark classroom. 

Her first thought was that it might be Tom, but as soon as she was able to grab her wand and turn it on whoever was behind her, she knew there was no way it could be him. He would never be this sloppy. She blasted whoever was behind her with a nasty stinging hex just to get their hands off of her, and whirled around as the door swung shut. 

“Ah, Merlin’s bloody ballsack, Granger, right in my sodding eye, fuck—“

She raised her wand against Draco Malfoy, bent over, his face in his hands. 

“What is this?” She asked as he squinted up at her, his face was red and she wasn’t sure if it was flushed or if it was the hex. Probably both. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to talk to you!” He bellowed, and then squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, “I can’t fucking see—I’m gonna go blind you daft bitch—“

“Maybe you shouldn’t have been hiding in the shadows to pull me into an abandoned classroom, you imbecile!” Hermione argued. Malfoy hadn’t reached for his wand, so she lowered hers just a tad. 

“This is what I get for being nice!” He said, rubbing frantically at his eyes and then blinking around the room, “Gah, fuck, I can’t need glasses, I’ll look like a ponce!"

“You already look like a ponce!” Hermione shot back.

“Fuck you, I don’t have to see you to know you look like a troll!” Malfoy snapped.

Knowing this conversation would go absolutely nowhere until he was no longer blinking around the room like an idiot, Hermione strode forward and grabbed him by the shoulder. He flinched away from her, but not quickly enough to stop her from pushing him down into one of the chairs and casting a simple healing charm. Malfoy blinked a bit more, and when he decided he could see well enough now, he slapped her hands away and stood once more so that he towered over her. 

“Right,” He said, and sniffed, straightening his robes, “Well, thank you for that needlessly overdramatic entrance, Granger.”

She took a big step away and kept her wand held tightly in her hand. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

“Right,” He nodded sharply, clasped his hands in front of him, and said nothing. 

Hermione waited for what she thought was a perfectly reasonable amount of time, but when it became clear he wasn’t going to say anything, she sighed sharply through her nose and said, “Well, if that’s all—“

“Merlin, would you give me a moment, Granger—“

“I’m not just going to stand here and stare at you while we both say nothing,” Hermione said. “You shouldn’t even be here. I’d say 10 points for being out after curfew and a further 20 points for—“

“You shouldn’t going to Weasel’s room!” Malfoy finally blurted out. 

Hermione almost asked him how he even knew that, but remembered the scandalized look on his face earlier that day when he was obviously listening in to their conversation. She narrowed her eyes and gathered her response, and Malfoy made no effort to explain. “What I do is none of your business, Malfoy.”

“You think I give a shit who you’re sleeping with?” Malfoy sneered, “You could be fucking Hagrid’s beast of a dog for all I care,”

“20 points for putting your hands on another student without permission and a further 20 for using obscene language—“

“What do you think Riddle is going to do when he finds out?” Malfoy finally exploded, and that rendered Hermione silent. “Hm?” He prompted, as if he really expected an answer. 

“He doesn’t know?” She asked, because truthfully she thought Riddle just knew everything that was happening at all times. 

“No, he bloody well doesn’t.” Malfoy snapped, “And I’m not going to tell him - I sure as shit don’t want to be the messenger for that.”

Hermione wasn’t sure what to think. Malfoy looked earnest, if not a bit defensive and condescending, but she couldn’t imagine why he would be sticking his neck out for her, especially after seeing the way he looked in that classroom alone with Tom. 

“What do you think he would do?” She asked quietly, and Malfoy gave a bit of a jolt, then sneered. 

“I didn’t come here to exchange pleasantries, Granger.” He said, turning his chin up, “I came to warn you and now I have. Hopefully we never need to speak again.”

He started toward the door, and Hermione was sure that he would be perfectly content to leave, retire to his dormitory, and never speak to her again. Unfortunately for him, Hermione saw an opportunity that she wasn’t about to let slip away. 

She locked the door right as he went to turn the handle. 

He turned to watch her as she pulled a chair out from one of the desks and sat down, still facing him. He scowled and said, “Very funny, Granger,” and pulled his wand out to unlock the door, so she casted a quick, worldless expelliarmus and tucked his wand into the waistband of her skirt, locking the door again.

“Granger.” He said sternly, but his eyes had gone a bit wide and he was glancing between her and the door.

“Have a seat.” She said. 

Malfoy paled, glanced between her, the seat across the desk from her, the door, back at her. He swallowed, and with decidedly less attitude, said, “I have nothing left to say to you, mudblood.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to call me that.” She pointed out, and truly she didn’t mean it as a threat, she meant it more as an observation, but he went deathly pale nonetheless. In short, mechanic movements, he made his way toward the chair that she pointedly kicked out for him. She kept her wand trained on him, just in case, but he sat calmly in his seat and waited for her to say something. 

“What would he do?” Was the first thing she asked. 

“Who bloody well knows,” Malfoy said, his voice didn’t shake but he still looked awfully pale, and his eyes were wide and drifting about the room as if he thought someone else was hiding there. “He’s a bit psycho, Riddle. Smart, but psycho.”

“What do you think he would do?” She pressed. 

“I don’t know, kill him?” He said, as if that was a perfectly ordinary thing to suggest. 

Hermione felt her heart racing in her chest, but she tried not to let her panic show on her face. He said it so casually, so thoughtlessly, and she couldn’t help but wonder, “Has he killed someone before?”

Malfoy fidgeted in his seat, looking increasingly uncomfortable, “I’m not answering that.” He said.

“Answer the question, Malfoy.”

“Or what?” He sneered, “What’s a swotty little Gryffindor going to do to make me talk, huh?” 

Hermione leaned across the desk, jabbing her wand into his throat. His sneer melted away instantly, and thought she had no idea what she would truly do if he refused to answer, she hoped her expression was severe enough that he wouldn’t doubt her ability to do what was necessary. 

“I don’t know!” He admitted immediately. “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t put it past him, he gets fucking weird when it comes to you.”

She paused, but that statement didn’t put her at ease. She lowered her wand from his throat and leaned back, “What do you mean?”

“Oh I don’t know,” Malfoy said sarcastically, rubbing at his throat and looking anywhere but at her, “Maybe that every time Riddle’s had some problem with you I get cursed within an inch of my life?” Malfoy seemed to be on a roll, didn’t even need the wand at his throat to have a good vent about everything Riddle had allegedly put him through, “He’s always a bastard, digs up dirt on everyone and slings it around when he needs to and gives you a good beating when that doesn’t work, but Merlin’s moldy ballsack—“ Hermione made a face at that, “—when he found out I called you a mudblood one-bloody-time—“

“Multiple times,” She interjected quietly, more for herself than him. 

“—Thought he was going to slit my throat, and leave me there to bleed out on the floor.”

“But he’s frightened you before.” Hermione pointed out. “I saw it.”

“And it’s none of your fucking business!” Malfoy exclaimed, the parlor of his skin giving way to blotchy redness across his cheeks. “That was a private discussion—“

“I don’t care about your discussion!” Hermione snapped, lifting her wand again just to watch the way he gulped and fixed his gaze on it, “I just want to know what he did to you. Details. Now.”

“Which time?” Malfoy asked, holding his hands up and staring between her wand and her eyes. 

“Pick one.” Hermione seethed. 

“Once he stuck his wand in my mouth and threatened to burn my tongue out of my mouth.”

Hermione stared. “Why?” She asked after a long moment.

“Are you going to burn my tongue if I tell you?” He asked pointedly.

“Obviously not,” Hermione nearly rolled her eyes, “You would be of no use to me then.”

He gulped.

“Has he ever done it?” She asked instead, because he didn’t seem keen on saying what Riddle’s reasoning was for threatening him, “Anything that he’s threatened to do, has he ever done it?”

“Sometimes,” Malfoy answered vaguely. 

Abruptly, Hermione felt rather sorry for him. As much of an arsehole as Malfoy was, and as utterly unhelpful he was at giving her specific information, she could only imagine the amount of fear he must feel with someone like Tom Riddle wandering around. He was probably watching his words for fear of retribution at Tom Riddle’s hands. 

She lowered her wand, observed the way he followed its movements carefully with his eyes. She didn’t want them to fight, she just wanted to know, so she set the wand carefully on the desk between them and laid both her hands in her lap. 

“What is the worst thing he’s done?” She asked. 

Malfoy stared her for a moment, and she thought he might answer, that they could have a conversation without the threat of a wand. But then Malfoy snatched her wand up, quicker than she could react, and stood so suddenly his chair scraped back and fell over. Hermione didn’t move, kept her eyes on Draco’s as he leveled her wand with her face. 

“Look,” He said, “I’m not here to have a heart-to-heart about Tom Bloody Riddle,” Hermione glowered up at him as he spoke, but she didn’t move. “The time when Riddle was prancing around with you was the most rest I’ve had in years,” 

Hermione’s treacherous heart gave a jolt at that. 

“All I’m asking is for you to use that bleeding Gryffindor heart, think about the rest of us, and stop bloody well pissing him off so we can all fucking relax.”

Hermione had known, logically, that while Tom Riddle spent time with her it meant he couldn’t spend time torturing other students. But to hear it from Malfoy, who would rather die than be in her presence for longer than absolutely necessary, made her wonder if there was more to it than simply stealing Riddle’s time. It also meant more to know that it wasn’t for concern of her, or of Ron, but for his own hide that he was doing this. It made it seem more real somehow, like this wasn’t another one of Malfoy’s dramatic episodes, but a genuine fear for his own safety. 

Still, he was standing over her with her wand in his hand, staring down his nose at her like he always did and insinuating that she should do everything Tom Riddle wants just to make Malfoy feel more comfortable. 

She reached up and grabbed her wand, pushing upwards so it was pointed away from her in case he tried to cast a spell, then she punched him in the face. 

There was a crack, and he flew backwards, tripping over his fallen chair and falling to the ground with a yelp. 

“I think you broke my fucking nose!” He howled. Hermione ignored him, pushing her chair in before she plucked his wand from her waistband and tossing it to the ground, far enough away form him that he wouldn’t grab it and curse her on her way out, and she left, shut the door behind her as Malfoy cried out, “You fucking mudblood bitch!”

She knew she had told Ron and Harry she would be coming over, but she figured they wouldn’t mind if she skipped tonight. 

She turned and made her way toward the Heads Room.

\--

She wasn’t sure what she expected when she entered the common room, but for some reason, seeing the lights turned off unsettled her. She realized that had never happened before, every time she came to the common room, the lights had been left on, and it always meant Tom was awake. He always turned the lights off before he went to bed.

The knowledge that he was most likely asleep was a very strange realization. 

It didn’t deter her. 

She set her bag on the ground and turned on the lights. Then she set about making a pot of tea and pouring two separate mugs, one black with no sugar, one with a splash of milk. She set these on the table, hesitated for only a moment, then marched to Tom Riddle’s door. 

She knocked loudly three times. 

For a moment she couldn’t hear anything, but then the silence of the corridor allowed her to hear the rustling of sheets from inside the room, and for some reason it made her feel very flustered to know that he was getting out of bed to answer his door. She steeled herself just in time for the door to open. 

He didn’t look like he had just woke up, at least not in the face. But his hair was mussed, and he was wearing a white t-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, a pair of black boxers, and nothing else. For some reason, it was the fact that he was barefoot that made her the most uncomfortable. 

Tom’s eyebrow was quirked when she met his eyes again, and Hermione straightened her shoulders. “I would like to speak to you.” She said. 

He blinked, and there was a moment of awkward silence before he finally spoke, and when he did his voice was rougher than she had heard it before, fresh from waking, “It must be urgent.” He said, and she didn’t miss how sarcastic it sounded. 

“Yes.” She agreed, “I made tea.”

His lips twitched, and he nodded, then he shut the door presumably to put some more suitable clothes on while Hermione returned to the common area. She sipped calmly at her tea until Tom arrived, and she was thankful that he now donned a pair of black sweatpants and a pair of black slippers. His hair was still a mess, and she thought it rather looked like Harry’s when it was like this, and while she had never in her life imagined Tom Riddle was even capable of donning bed-head, she found herself disconcertingly fixated on it. 

He sat across the table from her, picked up his mug of tea and watched her over the rim as he took a sip. 

“I’m sorry to wake you.” She said. 

“I thought this would be one of those nights where you disappear.” Tom admitted, “You must have a reason for returning.”

“I do,” She said, setting her tea down on the table. 

She had thought about how she would handle this conversation, but in all of her imaginings on the trek back to their common room, she kept seeing herself becoming angry, and considering what she hoped to speak about, she saw him getting angry as well. So, as she had planned, she pulled her wand out from where she had it tucked away, and set it on the table between them. 

Tom stared at the wand on the table for a long moment, then raised his eyes to meet hers. 

“You too.” She said, and nodded to her wand on the table. 

Slowly, he followed suit, reaching behind him to pull out his wand and set it on the table right next to hers. 

They were right between them, in the open, and Hermione knew that if he wanted he only had to reach forward and he could curse her, but she trusted her own reflexes. If he went for his wand she would go for hers, too. 

Tom took another sip of his tea. 

“Do you know where I’ve been going, on the nights where I disappear?” Hermione asked. 

“I admit I do not.” Tom admitted. 

“I’ve been going to the Gryffindor dormitories.” She said. 

“I assumed so.” Tom said, taking another sip of his tea. 

“To the boys dormitory.” She clarified. He paused, his mug of tea held to his lips as his eyes met hers once more. “With Harry and Ron.”

It was dreadfully quiet, and Tom watched her very carefully with an inscrutable expression. Slowly, he set his tea down, and Hermione tensed, ready to go for her wand if he did even though she knew he wouldn’t, not yet. He didn’t say anything, and Hermione found the silence stretched on further than she could bear. 

“What are you thinking?” She asked. 

Tom’s jaw clenched, he leaned forward in his seat, his elbows resting on his knees. He watched her carefully for a long moment, his eyes dark, and she was thankful for the table between them, because she was abruptly reminded of the way he looked at her in the corridor. 

“What is the point of this, Hermione?” He asked. 

Hermione tilted her head, “I just want to know what you’re thinking.” She repeated, and she meant it. She wanted to know what was going on in his head when he looked at her like that. 

He leaned back in his seat, and it relieved some of the tension in her shoulders to see him lean away from his wand on the table, but she couldn’t help but notice the way it made his t-shirt stretch across his chest when he rested his elbows on the armrests of the chair. He crossed his long legs in front of him and raised an eyebrow. 

“You want to know what I think,” He repeated, “You’ve been hiding from me with Ronald Weasley, and you want to know what I think.”

He said Ron’s name the way he always did, darkly, enunciating every syllable like it pained him to say it. Hermione didn’t know what the point was in repeating her question three times, so she didn’t say anything, just waited patiently for him to elaborate. 

“You don’t want to know what I think.” Tom said, and Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but he continued before she could, “You want to know what I’ll do.”

She mirrored his position, leaning back in the chair and crossing her legs, but she set her hands in her lap. “I have it on good authority that you would kill him.”

She didn’t miss the brief upturn of Tom’s lips, as if that amused him. “Who’s authority?” He asked. 

“Would you?” She pressed, ignoring his question because she wasn’t going to throw Malfoy under the bus, no matter how much of an arsehole he was. 

Tom’s eyes briefly narrowed, lowered momentarily before meeting her eyes again, and she had a feeling he was sizing her up, or taking her in. “The idea is not unappealing.” He admitted.

Hermione didn’t know why, but she had hoped he would have been more willing to answer her questions. She found herself becoming quickly annoyed, “You aren’t being very forthcoming.” She pointed out. 

“I’m still not clear on the point of this.” He admitted. 

“The point is, I would like to know what you’re thinking.” She snapped, tired of repeating herself. 

Tom leaned forward again, suddenly, and Hermione found herself immediately mirroring his posture. He noticed, if the way his eyes lowered once more before rising to meet hers again. His lips twitched again, but she couldn’t tell if it was in amusement or irritation, “You don’t need me to tell you exactly what I think about you spending your nights with Ronald Weasley.” 

“I would like to hear you say it.” She pressed.

“No you wouldn’t.” He argued, and before she could reply, said, “Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know?”

Her temper quickly rising, and feeling as if thisline of conversation was going nowhere, Hermione asked tersely, “Did you torture Draco Malfoy?”

And Tom very easily answered, “Yes.”

Somewhat taken aback, Hermione opened her mouth to answer and found she had nothing to say. Tom raised his eyebrow again, noticing her hesitation. 

“Now, would you like to know what I did?” He offered, “Or would you rather know why I did it?”

She considered it for a moment, then decided, “I’d like to know what you did on the night when I found you.”

“I crucio’d him on the potions room floor and then imperio’d him to lie to you.” He said sharply, and Hermione choked on her response before he continued, “Do you think I’m an idiot? I do not yet have the power or prestige to do something of that magnitude and get away with it.” He was angry, that much was obvious, with an undercut of disappointment that settled uncomfortably in her chest, like this conversation disappointed him. 

“But you would have.” She pointed out.

“If I knew I could get away with it and I believed he deserved it, yes.”

Hermione wasn’t sure what to do with that information, but his attitude was grating on her. “Tell me the worst thing you’ve done.” 

He was silent. 

“Not to Malfoy.” She clarified, “Tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done.”

“I would ask for you to start, but I think I might already know,” He answered, his voice cutting, his eyes even worse, “Perhaps it would have to do with Umbridge’s unfortunate run-in with the Centaurs at the end of her year as the Headmaster during Dumbledore’s year leave.” Hermione felt her blood run cold, but she didn’t reach for her wand because he hadn’t reached for his yet. “Or, maybe it would be in relation to the unfortunate disappearance and subsequent arrest of that reporter, what was her name…”

“Skeeter,” She answered, because it was obvious he knew. 

“Rita Skeeter,” He replied, pointedly, his lip curling into a sneer, “She wrote the story of you, Potter, and Krum. I read it, it certainly painted you in a very bad light.”

“I’ve been warned you have dirt on everyone Riddle, you don’t need to remind me.” Hermione snapped, but she hadn’t really realized that he would know things about her. She had figured that when Malfoy said that, he meant everyone in Slytherin, not everyone in Hogwarts. 

“So you can step down from your position of moral superiority, Hermione,” He said nastily, “We both know you don’t belong there.”

Frustrated, a bit thrown from the way the conversation had turned, and enraged at the gall he had to lecture her about a couple minor incidents when they were talking about how he wished he could cast unforgiveables without getting arrested, Hermione did something very impulsive and foolish. 

“I am considering a relationship,” She said, leaning back in her set and watching him as his expression very quickly went from unrestrained anger to his typical blank mask. Good, she thought. When his expression went blank, it always meant he was uncomfortable, or unsure, and she was sick of him having the upper hand in a conversation she had facilitated. “With you, in case that was unclear. That is what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

She meant to think this through after their conversation. If by some small miracle, he managed to convince her that he didn’t belong in an insane asylum, she might’ve considered exploring something, but she never dreamed of bringing it up tonight. But she was angry, and uncomfortable, and she couldn’t stop glancing down at the way his white t-shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders and she realized she wasn’t even sure if she had seen his bare arms like this before, let alone when she had seen his bare legs and feet at his bedroom door. 

But she hadn’t committed to anything yet. She had only said she was thinking about it, which wasn’t a lie. 

She had been thinking about it a lot.

Tom leaned back in his seat again, watching her with an uncomfortable blank expression. He was so still he was like a statue, and he made no move to say anything further. While Hermione loved the fact that he might be uncomfortable, she realized she had absolutely no idea where to go from here. This was not in the plan she had made in her head. 

“So I’d like to know,” She said, “What’s the worst thing you’ve done?”

Tom bit his lip, a gesture that threw her because she had never seen him do that before, and then he said, “You first.”

She considered it for a moment. 

“Rita Skeeter,” She answered, “But I don’t regret it.”

“She deserved it.” Tom agreed, and she wasn’t sure if he should say that. He was the only one who had told her that without the addendum of ‘but you shouldn’t have done it.’ His tone was final, as if it was obvious, inarguable, she deserved it and it needed to be done. “I killed my father when I was 15.”

Hermione went very tense, and wondered for a moment if this was his idea of a joke. She felt the blood rush to her legs as if her body was ready to bolt. But she didn’t run. 

“What did he do?” She asked quietly, because she wanted to believe that he deserved it, too.

Something about Tom softened inexplicably, the line of his shoulders relaxed every so slightly, his brow pinched in a way that showed he was allowing some sort of emotion to show, although she couldn’t read it yet. She didn’t know what she was doing. She didn’t know why she was still entertaining this conversation. She didn’t know.

“He ensured the death of my mother when I was born,” Tom answered, “He abandoned her and she died in the orphanage where I grew up as a result.”

“And then?” Hermione prompted. 

“And then I found him, and he told me he had hoped I had died, too.”

He didn’t look sad when he said it. He didn’t even look angry, or resigned. He said it like it was any other ordinary event, like the his father’s denial of him was as much of an emotional event as what he had for breakfast that morning. 

This was a horrible conversation. Hermione wasn’t sure what she was thinking entertaining this conversation. 

“Why did you tell me that?” She asked him, because it was a damning piece of information, and she didn’t think he had any business telling her that. 

“Because you asked.” He said. 

“Then I have another question,” She said, “How often do you torture the students in the school?”

“Not often,” He answered, and she found herself surprised at how differently he answered now, no anger or suspicion, no arguments. “It isn’t usually necessary. Malfoy is a special case, because he’s an imbecile.” Hermione would not allow herself to laugh at that. “I have enough control without needing to resort to physical intimidation, but they know I am willing to do so when necessary.”

“Then how do you explain torturing them less when I’m not pissing you off?” She asked. 

A smile pulled at his mouth, but he didn’t let it fully take hold. “Who told you that?”

“Please just answer the question.” Hermione deflected. 

“I’ll admit I may be more harsh when I’m…frustrated.” He admitted, and Hermione felt like he might mean more than just angry, but that seemed a bit ridiculous when they hadn’t done anything to relieve any ‘frustrations' yet except for one kiss. “Perhaps I have less time to torment them when I’m with you,” He offered, “Perhaps I have less desire to torment them after I’ve been with you.”

“You are much more forthcoming all of a sudden.” Hermione remarked, and this time he really did smile. He leaned forward again, further forward than he had before, so that he was peering up at her from across the table, and he had one of those wide smiles that dimpled his cheek that she hated so much. 

“That was before I knew what the purpose of this conversation was.” He said lowly, 

Hermione hated that she felt that voice settle right between her legs. She wondered how many horrible things she would need to hear before she would finally stop reacting to the way that he smiled and the way that he spoke. She wondered why hearing that he killed his deadbeat father hadn’t frightened her into hating him as much as she pretended to. 

‘She deserved it,’ he had said, so steady and sure, and she didn’t know why it mattered, but it did. 

“One last question.” She said quietly. 

“Ask me.” He prompted, matching her tone of voice. 

“Why now?” She asked, “You noticed me two months ago, and now you’re admitting your darkest secrets to me, why?”

He lifted his hand to rub his jaw, his eyes briefly narrowing in thought, “Two months…” He echoed, “I noticed you first year.”

Hermione couldn’t help the disbelieving face she made. 

“You were so smart,” He said, his voice quiet and introspective like someone lost in a memory, “And so loud. And muggleborn.” He dropped his hand, “I hated you."

She thought back to all her interactions with Tom Riddle from first year, as minimal as they were, and could not for the life of her remember him hating her. If he had, he hid it well. 

“I have purposefully kept my blood status a secret, until I found something that made it irrelevant,” She wasn’t sure what that meant, but she didn’t have time to clarify, “I hated muggles, and everything they did. I came here because I thought it was a way to get away from muggles, only to find people like you, flaunting it, acting like it was something to be proud of.”

“And yet you can’t stand someone calling me a mudblood.” Hermione pointed out.

“Because as I watched you,” He continued, “You just became more and more interesting. You were as smart as you were vicious,” He leaned further forward, and Hermione wondered what he would be doing if there wasn’t a table between them. His eyes are so intense, and he had threaded his fingers together in front of him, his thumb running up the line of his index finger. She remembered the way his hands felt that night in the corridor. “You were passionate and ambitious and so contrary no one could stand you.” She didn’t know why he said that as if it was something to be admired, that she pissed everyone off. “I found you so endlessly fascinating that I thought about you all the time.”

“Why didn’t you speak to me then?” She asked.

“I didn’t want to speak to you.” He said simply, like that should be obvious. “I wanted…” And he trailed off, cocked his head and seemed to rethink what he was about to say. “I decided if there were muggles out there that could create something like you, then surely there’s no point in eradicating them as some would argue.” And then he smiled, like it was a joke, and added, “And I knew you wouldn’t like it,”

Hermione felt very warm, her skin was buzzing and she felt so very far out of her depth. She didn’t know why every time she spoke to him, all her plans fell to waste. She wondered if it was the past 6 years of her desperate attempts to better him, or the accumulation of her suspicions turning out correct that somehow only made her feel that much more infatuated with him. Like the very idea that she was right when everyone told her she was wrong, rather than calming her obsession, fueled it. 

It made her feel deeply uncomfortable. 

“That’s all.” She suddenly said, and leaned forward to pluck her wand off the table. She left the mugs of tea, half-drank, picked her bag up from the floor, and prepared to flee. 

As she passed by his chair, he reached out and caught her hand. She froze, turning her head to peer down at him sat on the chair. 

“Goodnight, Hermione,” He said quietly, his expression serene and unguarded. There was a darker undercurrent in his gaze, something that made her stomach clench. His voice was quiet and calm, but she couldn’t help but feel like there was some warning there. 

“Goodnight,” She replied, and then more quietly, “Tom.”

She saw the sharp intake of breath in the way his chest expanded, and something flashed in his eyes. 

She pulled her hand from his and retired to her room for the night. 

—

When Hermione woke in the morning, she got dressed, picked up her bag, and came out of her room to see Tom waiting for her in the common area. 

“Good morning, Hermione,” He greeted. His hair was combed and styled, he was fully dressed and ready for the day. It felt bizarre, like last night hadn’t happened, even though it was all she could think about. 

“Good morning,” She greeted, as if this was something that happened every day, “Breakfast?”

They walked together, and they didn’t speak, and he didn’t try to, as if he accepted that she was muling over everything they had spoken about last night. She thought many things on their walk. She thought about Tom Riddle watching her quietly for the last six years, she thought of him adjusting his view of muggles—if that is to be believed—because of a crush on her. She thought of his father. She thought of the way he said Ron’s name, like it was a threat. 

As they neared the entrance to the Great Hall, Hermione saw Draco speaking to Pansy in the corridor, something either heated or embarrassing based on her red face. Malfoy noticed as Hermione and Tom neared, glancing between the two of them. He raise both eyebrows, as if he hadn’t expected her to heed anything he said, and then nodded once in what she optimistically interpreted as gratitude. If Tom noticed, he didn’t say anything. 

As they entered, they paused at the doorway. Hermione caught sight of Ron and Harry, the former of the two staring at the doorway with an expression of pure confusion, mixed with a bit of outrage as Ron always showed when he was confused. She turned her head to say goodbye, but noticed that Tom’s eyes were fixed disconcertingly on Ron at the Gryffindor table. 

She laid her hand on his arm, and experimentally, she called his name, “Tom,” Just to see what would happen. 

He blinked, turned his head to face her as his hand raised to lay over hers on his arm. 

Then, because she couldn’t be subtle, she said, “Please stop glaring at Ron like that.”

He quirked an eyebrow and didn’t answer.

The lingered for a long moment at the entrance, and Hermione felt strangely gratified that although he hadn’t graced her with an answer, he hadn’t allowed his gaze to drift back to Ron at the Gryffindor table. 

Logically, she knew she hadn’t given herself enough time to think. She knew she should distance herself from him until she could think clearly again, after everything he had told her the night before, but some small part of her still remained resolutely fixated on him, as if the desire to know him hadn’t stemmed so much from suspicion and her own moral responsibilities, but more because she simply wanted to know him for her own sake. She wished she could say that she acted without thinking. But the truth was she had done nothing but think for the past 6 years and still reached the same conclusion. 

She stepped closer, raised herself up on her toes and tipped her chin up, slowly, until her lips brushed against his as soft as his fingers on her hand that night outside of Slughorn’s party. 

Then she pulled away, took in the heat of his eyes, and quirked her eyebrow back up at him before pulling away and walking the length of the Great Hall to join her friends at the table. 

She steadfastly ignored the shameless looks of surprise on the student’s faces as she walked.

“Please tell me,” Ron said as soon as she sat down, “That this means you will finally stop following me around.”

“Perhaps.” She answered vaguely. 

Ron sighed, shoveling a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth, then through a mouthful of eggs he said, “Anyway, Pansy is my date to the Yule Ball.”

“ _What_?”


End file.
